No Love for the Wicked Read online

  “Ya tryna ride on pancake tires, man?” Angelo lit a cigarette, ignoring the question regarding his money situation as he dug in his pocket and slapped a couple bills in the little fish-faced kid’s dirty hand.

  “Thank you!” The boy stared at the crisp dollar bills as if he’d never seen cash in his whole life. “Yeah, that’s all right! Good lookin’.”

  “Go get that tire fixed… The rest of you, come here.” He pointed to the other three kids, curling his finger in the direction of the ring leader, and they practically bum-rushed him, their eyes eager and hands out like peasants. They talked over one another so fast, he could barely understand what they were saying. He handed each of them a couple dollars, enough for them to get something to eat or go to the movies.

  “Thanks, man! You all right!” one of them yelled as they huddled like a football team, putting their money together to see what they could score.

  “Hey!” the ring leader called out, turning his way. “We wash cars. We do it for tips. If you come out this way, ask for Stevie, ya dig? That’s me. You need your car washed? I can do it right now.”

  “No, I don’t need my car washed. I don’t let just anyone touch my ride. I got a tip for you, though, young blood. Stay out the damn street.” He took a drag of his cigarette and narrowed his eyes on the little bastard with mischief in his eyes. “Nothin’ is out here for you but a ticket to jail and a date with the fucking reaper.” His cigarette bobbing out the side of his mouth, he got into the car and closed the door. The sandy-haired ring leader didn’t say anything more. Confusion and sadness flashed in his eyes, then he turned away, back to his friends.

  Angelo rested his head against the car seat, smoking. He glanced at his grandmother, who seemed preoccupied with getting her purse in order. Across the street, a Puerto Rican cat was doped up out of his mind. The guy wore plaid bellbottom pants and a shirt far too big for his frame, and he swayed like a tree in the breeze, barely able to stand on his own two feet. He turned to his grandmother once more, who was now gripping her closed blue purse so tight, it was a wonder her little fingers didn’t break off.

  “Where are we going in Harlem, Nonna?” He started the car. The black and white dice swung on the hook behind the rearview mirror as he pulled away from the curb then rolled his window down.

  “East 115th Street.”

  “Okay.” He could think of a million other places he’d rather be. Regardless, he kept his mouth shut and drove in the silence. It was too quiet. Nonna was a talker. In fact, the old woman would talk his damn ear off every chance she saw fit. Most of the time, he didn’t mind much. Tonight, she was eerily silent.

  “Nonna, what’s this all about, huh? Why do you have me going over here?” He blew out rings of smoke and slowed as he approached a red light.

  His nonna looked down, then peered out the window. From her reflection he noted the tight lips and deep frown marks around her mouth. Her thick silver hair, with a few determined black strands that hung on as mane reflections of the past. Her locks were pulled taut in a bun, and she smelled of her signature perfume: Faberge Tigress.

  “I need to see a special woman.”

  “Special woman?” He turned his eyes to the road. “A friend?”

  “No.”

  “A seamstress? Hat maker?”

  “No.” She shook her head. “She has… gifts.”

  “Oh, God.” He smacked the steering wheel and rolled his eyes. “Not another psychic, Nonna! Psshhh! For tha love of God! You’ve gotta be kiddin’ me? How many times do we have to go through this, huh?” He waved his hand about and shot her a brief, hard look. “What are ya doin’? You’ve got twelve candles that cost you more than the price of the Taj Mahal, sold to you from a headscarf-wearing quack that don’t do shit but burn and stink up the joint. Ya got potions from some so-called Haitian Voodoo priest lady that are nothin’ but baby oil and food coloring and a necklace made of yarn from that self-proclaimed minister with the vicious overbite. When is this going to stop? These crazy superstitions of yours?”

  “She’s recommended. Better than the ones before.”

  “Someone recommended that I jump off a bridge.” He chuckled dismally. “A bridge that was better than the last one I’d been asked to jump off from, too. This new one was higher. Better condition. Should I do it, Nonna? Huh? Should I? It was recommended, ya know.” Shaking his head in disbelief, he tapped the cigarette to let the ashes out the window.

  “Angel, do not make fun of this. Do not joke about this!” She waved her finger in his face. Wrinkles deepened between her brows, bunched like a bundle of twigs, and her slanted hazel eyes practically disappeared within the folds of her oval face.

  “Nonna, you’re throwin’ your money away to these con-artists, these crooks. They prey on the gullible, the desperate, and old people, all right? They get paid for telling a bunch of lies. None of these so-called psychics can help ya, okay? They’re full of it. You’re better off askin’ a stray dog in the park for the lottery numbers.”

  Nonna said nothing more. She looked straight ahead, clearly tuning him out. He kept driving. Biting his tongue. Nonna’s delusions had become an obsession in the last few years. Ever since his grandfather died, she’d become enamored with the afterlife, psychics, and new age bullshit. When they arrived in the area, she pointed out the apartment building.

  “Angel, slow down. I think this is it.”

  It was far less rundown than some of the other structures nearby. Loud rock music poured from one of the open windows in the building that a couple teenagers hung out of, both yelling in Spanish and laughing at people who passed by. He parked his car, turned off the engine, and hopped out, helping Nonna get to her feet. Her orthopedic shoes with the heavy taupe heels would need replacing soon. They appeared worn on the sides.

  As they alighted, multiple pairs of eyes trained on him, his grandmother, and his car.

  “That’s Casper… Angelo Ferrari…” someone whispered. He wasn’t certain who’d spoken, but he could hear a cockroach piss on cotton two blocks away. Nothing got past him. His ears were finetuned to the streets. Casper was his nickname in the thoroughfares.

  “Since no introduction is needed, listen, and listen good,” he stated in a loud voice so everyone could hear. “If one fuckin’ scratch appears on this car when I come back out here,” he held up his finger, “I’m gonna fuck each and every one of you up. Guaranteed. I don’t give uh shit if your ol’ lady is sittin’ right next to ya, I’ll mop the sidewalk with you, right before her eyes like it’s dinner-time entertainment. Leave my fuckin’ tires alone, too. I know how you sons of bitches like to do over here. In fact, don’t even look at my shit,” he threatened.

  A few people cursed at him in Spanish.

  “Angel, stop yelling,” Nonna stated, her tone terse as she approached the steps.

  Someone else screamed at him in Spanish, then made a quick jog in the opposite direction. Coward.

  “Vete a la mierda también!” he retorted. “Yeah, I know a little Spanglish too, motherfucker.” He stepped ahead of his grandmother and rapped on the door, then hit the buzzer. No one answered.

  “What’s this special lady’s name, Nonna?”

  “Andrea.”

  He stepped to the side, framed his mouth with his hands, and yelled up towards the sky.

  “Hey! Andrea! Can you let us in? I’ve gotta skitty.”

  Suddenly, another window opened in the building and out poked a woman’s head. A long, elegant neck adorned with a silver and purple beaded choker that glinted in the sunlight. She had so much black hair, it practically swallowed her most beautiful face. Lush black curls sprung forward like an ebony lion’s mane as she looked down. Her tresses were the same texture as the midnight-colored boy’s, only richer in hue. Her skin glowed in shades of dark cinnamon, and she had deep dimples and some of the whitest eyes he’d ever seen that reminded him of freshly fallen snow. She gripped the paint-chipped window sill.

  “Mrs. Russo?”r />
  “Yes, it’s me,” Grandma answered, smiling up at the window, her eyes full of hope as she clasped her wrinkled hands together, holding on to a rosary. Angelo turned away, sucking his teeth and shaking his head. He spit on the ground. What a crock of shit.

  “I’ll be right down.” He tossed his cigarette onto the concrete and smashed it with the tip of his shoe. About a minute later, the grand front door swung open and there stood the same woman from the window. Now, he could see her much more clearly. She wore a yellow crop top that tied right beneath her heaving breasts, and tight bellbottom jeans that hugged wide hips and thighs. Standing about five foot nine and smelling like roses, she was fucking incredible. A gorgeous specimen from her head to her feet. He couldn’t stop staring at her… She looked like a movie star, but without the long red carpet gown, snapping cameras, and bells and whistles.

  She simply came across as though she was somebody. Someone important. Her lips curled as she reached for Nonna’s hand and led her inside. Then, she noticed him.

  “Va va fuckin’ voom.”

  They stopped walking, the three of them standing right before the steps. His eyes locked with Andrea’s, and her smile faded. In fact, she looked downright frightened, like she’d seen a ghost. They didn’t call him Casper for nothing. Maybe she’d realized who he was, too? The woman quickly averted her gaze and helped Nonna up a winding flight of stairs, then another, and another. Nonna was gasping for air by the time they’d reached the third flood.

  “This isn’t good for you, Grandma.” He held her arm, allowing her to lean into him.

  The old woman was panting now, clutching her necklace, but waved him off. Andrea opened her apartment door, and as soon as they stepped inside, it was like being engulfed whole by an oversized greenhouse. There was vegetation in vases, herbs in bowls with pestles in them, enormous ceramic pots full of foliage and assorted wild flowers everywhere. She likes plants and flowers, huh? It’s her thing, I guess.

  The woman closed the door softly and went through securing a series of locks, as if trying to keep out the Devil himself. Andrea turned and glared at him right after she’d finished. Perhaps she’d realized it was too late. She took hold of Nonna’s arm once more and led her to a table by a window. The same window she’d jammed her head out of, looking down at him as if she were above him in some way. Maybe she was.

  “You can have a seat, too,” the woman said to him as if it were an afterthought, pointing to a wooden bench only a few feet away. Her gaze never met his.

  Nonna sat across from her. He studied the bench, taking note of strange inscriptions carved in the wooden arms and the small red satin throw pillow sitting in the middle of it. He sat down hesitantly.

  Good. I can see my car from here just fine.

  She disappeared to the kitchen and returned with a glass of water for Nonna. He didn’t miss how her eyes gravitated towards his gun, nestled in the holster on his side.

  The table the two women sat at was covered with a shiny purple cloth. It was probably some cheap polyester knock-off. On it was some strange clear globe that looked like a crystal ball, next to a stack of glossy white and gold cards. Who knew what they were, or what she planned to do with them. A pile of glistening rocks lay in a brown bowl, all different colors. On a white cake plate he could see tea leaves, and all sorts of strange shit on an egg-shaped silver tray – a large bird feather, incense cones, and a number of red bottles. Next to it sat a satchel of sorts. He wondered what was in it. Probably a frog head and some other dumb shit to play the part of a real live mystic. I don’t have time for this bullshit.

  He had to admit, it smelled damn good in there – fresh and clean, and sweet. The two women engaged in small talk, during which he took more time to look around. There was a decent television across from him, switched off, sitting on a stand that looked to be made for enjoying T.V. dinners. Artwork in gold frames covered the walls, much of it featuring Black people playing instruments, depictions of dark-complexioned Ancient Egyptians, including pharaohs, and a few African masks sprinkled about the room, too. The floor was covered with a tan and white shag carpet. His shoes sank into it, the softness giving way to a bit of slip if one wasn’t careful.

  He could see into the small and neat kitchen area, noticing the avocado stove and refrigerator. They looked practically new. White ceramic canisters sat on the counter, perhaps full of pretend poisons… But no; one was marked sugar, another flour, the third coffee, and the last, tea. He felt uneasy the more he sat there, listening to the two women chat. Something was off, making him itch deep inside. In fact, despite the place being clean and somewhat inviting, he felt a strange energy there, as though he was being watched. Now I sound as crazy as Nonna… But he couldn’t shake the sensation. It was like being in a room full of people, only you couldn’t see the motherfuckers. He ran his hand along his hip, feeling his gun. The touch of it always put him at ease.

  He cast his eyes towards the two women again, both of them speaking softly and smiling at one another. He checked his watch, worried he wouldn’t be home in time.

  “…So that’s why, okay?”

  Nonna nodded. He could barely understand what was being said, despite sitting so close. His hearing was one of his strong suits. It was almost as if the woman was blocking him on purpose, trying to pull some peculiar mind trick on his grandmother while speaking in that sweet, hushed, even tone of hers. I bet she wouldn’t sound like that if I was shaggin’ her, knocking that beaver every which way but loose.

  “I don’t believe in none of this shit,” he blurted as he placed a hand on each knee and leaned forward. Andrea turned towards him, and so did Nonna, who grimaced, clearly disapproving. But he wouldn’t have her be taken advantage of.

  “Well, you’re not here for a reading, so what you think doesn’t matter right now, does it?”

  He didn’t like the bitch’s tone. She had a smart mouth. Though he didn’t go around broadcasting it, people knew who the hell he was. Didn’t she? This was his second time wondering. He didn’t like how she looked at him, either, as though trying to dig inside him to pull out his guts and explore them. There was no future, only the present, so why try to predict the shit? If such things worked, this pretty woman wouldn’t be living in this ramshackle apartment, in this piss-poor part of town, barely scraping by. She’d be somewhere upstate, or better yet, out of New York altogether. He slowly got to his feet and approached them, his hands on his narrow hips.

  “I’m going to call it like I see it. If you could really foretell the future and help people, be a do-gooder, then you wouldn’t be in the shape you’re in. You wouldn’t need to steal from little old ladies, that’s for sure. You’re nothing more than a two-bit magician.”

  “You think I perform magic?”

  “You don’t? You claim you can, according to my grandmother. You could use your so-called powers to make things better for yaself, Wonder Woman. But you can’t, now can you?” He sneered. “Just cut the bullshit.” He gritted his teeth, hating her the more he looked at her. His dick loved her, though. His dick loved her so fucking much, it throbbed and twitched at the mere sight of her.

  “That’s not how this works, Mr. Ferrari.” Her tone was calm, but her words jabbed at his peace of mind like an ice pick.

  How’d she know my name? How’d she know my fucking name? She must know who I am then after all, or maybe Nonna must’ve told her.

  He didn’t break his stare.

  “How’s it work then, foxy mama?” He smirked as he lit another cigarette. Pressing his palm on the table, he leaned forward and crossed his ankles.

  “I get feelings. I can sense things. It’s not on auto-pilot. It comes and goes. You’re a nonbeliever though, so,” she shrugged, “I don’t waste my time trying to convince people like you to believe in me. You think I’m jivin’ you, but I’m real and I know it. I’m no tooth fairy. You’re looking dead at me.” Her eyes hooded.

  “I look at a lot of shit… a lot of people. Every.
Damn. Day. Doesn’t make them legit.”

  “If it’s real, you can see it with your own eyes.”

  “Eyes lie, too. Seeing isn’t always believing. People believe whatever the hell they wanna believe, no matter what’s in front of their face. You could prove the Earth is round with space footage, have Neil Armstrong himself co-sign it, an alien coming down here and telling us this place looks like a ball. And even after all of that, some dumb motherfucker would still say it was square as an ice cube.”

  “Angel. Stop it. That’s enough,” Nonna warned.

  “Desperation breeds contempt. Contempt breeds more desperation. Human nature is a bitch and her predictability drives me to boredom,” he continued, disregarding his grandmother. “Yawn. Tuck me in. Goodnight.” He blew out smoke in her direction and winked at her, then laughed his ass off.

  “My love angers your hatred. You dance with shadows, I laugh with the sun. I bask in light, you lie down with the pigs in the darkness. Since you want to go to sleep, maybe you’ll have a nightmare tonight, Mr. Ferrari… One that will make your blood run cold.” Aloofness shone in her eyes.

  “What the hell are you talkin’ about? Are you threatening me, crazy lady?” He couldn’t believe his damn ears.

  “I’m not threatening you. I don’t have to lift a finger. I’m talking to that disgusting beast inside of you.” She pointed to his heart. “Tell your demons to pipe down, or my spirits will teach them a lesson.” His heart beat so hard in his chest, heat spread across his ribs. “Now, back to you.” Andrea’s eyes narrowed for a second, and she swallowed hard, turning away from him.

  A flash fantasy of his hands wrapped loosely around her throat as he fucked the shit out of her danced in his mind. He could practically hear the bed squeaking, envision her big tits jiggling up and down with each pounding thrust as he tore her to pieces, fucked her right out of her whacky little mind. Buried deep in that sweet black pussy of hers, sheltered between fat, warm, beautiful thighs. After treating him like some chump, the woman was patting his grandmother’s hand as if together, they’d ignore the big, bad wolf in the room. She played it off well, but he could tell that his very presence unnerved her. She seemed to quickly get herself together though, putting on a kind face like some actress, and continued on with her spiel.